


Cáelm

by senorflamingos



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Kissing, M/M, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Sleepiness, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, let geralt kiss the elf!!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:33:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25528981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/senorflamingos/pseuds/senorflamingos
Summary: Like the way he had lifted his headscarf in Vergen, it seemed like a deliberate display of trust, to allow Geralt to see him in a way that he doubted many others aside from other scoia’tael ever had.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Iorveth
Comments: 22
Kudos: 126





	Cáelm

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this](https://pepsiprophecy.tumblr.com/post/624358034087526400/chanting-bi-geralt-bi-geralt-bi-geralt) fanart, i just wanted them to kiss really
> 
> "Cáelm" - "Calm"  
> all other elder speech translations at the end

It had been five months since the events at Tesham Mutna, five months of relative peaceful living at Corvo Bianco, five months of feeling the loneliness settle into his bones.

Regis had left to pursue Dettlaff, leaving him with the ghost of a kiss on his brow, an empty feeling in his chest and no updates save for a grumpy raven with a brief note around its leg two months in to indicate that Regis had found Dettlaff and would be staying with him for the foreseeable future. 

The first month had been tinged by Dandelion’s presence in Toussaint, with frequent visits to taverns and a near-methodical exploration of Geralt’s wine cellars, but he eventually left to go back to Novigrad and Priscilla, taking with him the easy conversations and friendly touches that Geralt didn’t knew he needed so much until they were gone.

Ciri stopped by more than once, and together they drove the monster population of Toussaint to near extinction, as he taught her how to tackle archespores and slyzards, giant centipedes and persistent panthers, before deciding that relying on a partner too much would do her no good in the long run. 

When she stood at his doorstep, two swords on her back, looking both the part of a witcher and his little girl, Geralt could do nothing but crush her in a hug that he hoped conveyed how much he’d miss her, how much he loved her and how proud he was. She didn’t say a word as she reached a hand up to brush a tear from his cheek before she turned to leave, flashing him a smile before striding over to her horse and trotting away from him into the gentle morning light.

Two months later, Geralt jolted awake in the middle of the night to the unmistakable sound of hooves outside his front door, and then a thud not unlike a body hitting the ground.

He was out of bed, sword in hand before he had time to fully wake up, creeping out of his room on silent feet.

Swinging open the front door first revealed a horse, panting and anxiously stomping its hooves, and then the crumpled shape of a man on the ground, the hard line on an arrow jutting out from his left shoulder.

It wasn’t until the man groaned and rolled over slightly that Geralt recognised him.

Iorveth wasn’t wearing his headscarf, nor the armour that Geralt was used to recognising him by. He had an eyepatch over his right eye and wore light travel gear, clearly not made for whatever fight he’d gotten himself into.

His bow was peeking out from underneath him though and Geralt saw the line of a sword on the ground next to him, so he was clearly not defenseless and had likely left his assailants in various states of injury.

“Ger… bandits…” he ground out, speech slurred.

Geralt crouched down, smelling alcohol on his breath, his eye glassy from wine and pain.

Deciding that any questions could wait until he sobered up, Geralt grabbed him by the arm that wasn’t impaled by an arrow and all but carried him into the house. 

By the time he’d deposited Iorveth on his bed, not willing to drag him up the stairs unnecessarily, Barnabas-Basil had been woken up by the noise and came in through the door looking alarmed, but alert.

“Old friend, injured,” Geralt said as explanation. “Can you fetch my saddlebags?” 

Nodding, BB left Geralt to inspect Iorveth closer. He was pale and clammy, but it seemed to be as much from alcohol as the injury, and what he could see of the puncture wound didn’t seem to bleed too badly. The arrow had gone through the meat of his upper arm, piercing clean through, the arrowhead poking out from the back of his shoulder.

“Can you hear me?” He cupped Iorveth’s cheek to tilt his head up where it lay slumped to the side, and Iorveth’s eye seemed to struggle to focus on him before he mumbled, “Gwynbleidd...” and trailed off in elder speech, too murky for Geralt to catch any words.

His uninjured hand twitched where it lay half underneath his body as if he wanted to lift it, but the movement jolted his injured shoulder and he moaned quietly in pain, slumping down again.

“Hey,” Geralt said. “Don’t move until we get this thing outta you.” Iorveth mumbled another string of elder speech, nodding against Geralt’s palm, tilting his head to nose at Geralt’s wrist.

BB returned with the saddlebags, and Geralt found everything he needed, hands moving with practiced ease.

He cut away Iorveth’s shirt and poured some alcohol on the wound to clean it. Using the knife and a firm twist of his hand, he snapped the shaft of the arrow to allow him to pull it out. The sharp movement jostled Iorveth’s shoulder, causing him to hiss and curse and glare up at Geralt.

“Sorry. Here comes the big one,” Geralt said, the only warning he gave Iorveth before bracing a hand on his shoulder and yanking the arrow out.

At this, Iorveth gave nothing but a hiss between clenched teeth, squeezing his eye closed when Geralt poured more alcohol on the wound before pressing bandages to it and wrapping them up tight.

To secure the bandages, he lifted Iorveth’s body upright, causing his head to slump against Geralt’s shoulder as Geralt wrapped the bandages around his chest.

Geralt felt him nuzzle closer, his nose making an exploratory trail up Geralt’s neck as he once again started an unintelligible string of elder speech, voice low and lips brushing Geralt’s throat with the words.

Tipping him backwards, Geralt got his left hand on his uninjured shoulder and the right went to his cheek, holding his head up.

His hair was mussed, pushed up and tangled around the wrappings of his eyepatch and his eye was drooping, clearly about to cave in to sleep.

“Any other injuries that need attention?” Geralt said, squeezing his shoulder to get his attention.

Iorveth only gave a slight shake of his head, letting his eye fall closed as Geralt guided him back against the bed. 

Before Geralt could pull back and leave, Iorveth’s good hand came up to grab his neck, holding him in place.

“Gwynbleidd, n’te… Esseath…” Iorveth trailed off, face twisting into a complicated grimace. “Stay,” he said, letting his arm fall back to the bed, eye opening to give Geralt a surprisingly clear look. He quickly shut it again, clearly not ready to face whatever he was struggling with head on, and Geralt made a split decision, moving to the other side of the bed and lying down. 

“I’m here,” he said into the quiet between them, and Iorveth made a small humming sound, his hand reaching out to grab Geralt’s, before his breathing evened out in sleep.

Geralt laid awake until Iorveth was asleep, until their hands got clammy where they were pressed together, until the candle burned out, leaving the room in darkness and finally silencing Geralt’s confused thoughts.

\--

Iorveth woke up alone, head and body feeling like he’d fallen head first from a tree and hit every branch on the way down.

His shoulder ached with a throbbing pain that he recognised intimately, and his head pounded in tune with his heart, muddling his thoughts and memories. He barely noticed the dozens of scrapes and cuts that littered the rest of his body, mementos from a fight he could barely recall.

He looked around the room, at the lush bedsheets, the swords and a painting of the Toussaint hillsides mounted on the wall, the bookshelves filled to the brim and, he noted with a snort, three different Gwent tournament trophies sitting on a low shelf by the foot of the bed.

It dawned on him, as it had five drinks in at the noisy tavern last night, that seeing Geralt would, and had, calmed the restless energy that seemed to haunt him these days.

Stripped of his purpose and mission, Iorveth had aimlessly wandered for a year, visiting elven settlements to slowly see the awe of his presence leave the faces of the younger elves and former scoia’tael, killing bandits in an attempt to calm his twitching nerves and occasionally going back to Vergen to see the relative peace that still reigned there under Saskia’s rule.

Restless and alone, he watched as his new second-in-command fell in love with a girl that was more human than elf, her ears barely betraying the elven blood that flowed through her veins, cheeks round and dimpled when she smiled at him. He watched as Saskia married a dwarven emissary from Mahakam, watched as everyone he knew settled down and gave up fighting, trusting in the fragile peace forged by cooperation.

When he heard of Radovid’s death, and of Roche’s part in it, he silently toasted the empty seat in front of him, trying and failing to drag up the old hatred that had always followed any mention of the man. 

He avoided thinking about Geralt’s involvement in the regicide, and Geralt altogether, until he heard news of the Wild Hunt, songs and stories akin to legends making their way east, his heart clenching with not knowing how bad it had really been and whether Geralt had made it out alive.

Finally, inevitably, he met Roche outside a tavern in Vizima, decked out in Nilfgaardian colours and looking profoundly uncomfortable with the whole encounter. 

Half heartedly, for old times sake, he punched him in the face and earned a kick to the knee, causing him to stumble back against the wall. He let himself sink down into the mud, looking up at Roche with what he hoped was an appropriate amount of anger, but was probably closer to resignation, if Roche’s tired look in reply was anything to go by. 

Roche sank down next to him and didn’t say anything for a few, long minutes.

“Geralt is alright. From what I hear he’s retired to Toussaint, taking up wine making and dallying in his old age.”

Iorveth snorted, but felt some unspoken coil of nerves smooth and settle inside his chest.

“Why do you assume I care about Geralt?”

Roche gave a quiet laugh of his own.

“He’s the one thing we have in common at this point,” he replied. “And from what I hear, this is as far west as you’ve come since Loc Muinne. Somehow, it coinciding with the speed of news trickling east doesn’t seem like much of a coincidence.”

He paused for a moment, and when Iorveth didn’t reply, he continued.

“He did choose you, after all. Even I was anxious to hear the end of the tale, and I had the privilege of being a part of it.” 

“Thank you,” Iorveth said, getting up. “Va faill, Vernon Roche.” 

The words were an echo of the last time he’d said them, back when he fully intended to murder Roche the next time they met. The irony of uttering them again, with no intention of ever killing another human leader was not lost on him.

The sound of footsteps outside the door brought Iorveth out of his thoughts and back to the bedroom. As the door opened, Iorveth saw Geralt’s familiar white hair first, and then an unfamiliar bespectacled man whose smell identified him as some kind of healer. 

Iorveth was ordered to strip down and relax, as the man unwrapped the bandages to inspect, clean and rewrap the shoulder wound, apparently happy enough with Geralt’s handiwork.

He moved on to the minor cuts and bruises from last night, disinfecting them and surprising Iorveth by applying a herbal healing salve that he recognised as elven. Iorveth looked up at Geralt, who was standing by the bookshelf with his arms crossed and a frown on his face and realised that of _course_ Geralt would have gone out of his way to find a healer that was familiar with elves. 

Feeling his gaze, Geralt lifted his eyes to look at him, an unspoken question in his eyes. Iorveth gave him a small smile and a nod in thanks.

The physician ordered him to stay in bed for at least another two days, and left after giving Geralt strict instructions to keep him fed and hydrated.

Geralt then left to do exactly that, coming back with soup and a waterskin which he deposited next to Iorveth, before settling down next to him on the bed and watching carefully as he ate and drank. 

“You know, I’m no stranger to arrow wounds,” Iorveth pointed out halfway through his soup, throwing Geralt a glance that hopefully conveyed that he was _fine_ really, completely able to eat unsupervised.

Geralt huffed out a laugh and rolled his eyes.

“I’m well aware. You, however, were half out of your mind last night, and I’m not feeling inclined to just leave you here.”

“Right as you may be, I think the alcohol has well and truly left my body at this point.”

“I’m sure,” he said, making no motion to leave. “Eat up.”

Iorveth obeyed. 

When he finally put down his soup, he looked over at Geralt, who sat with his eyes closed, seemingly lost in meditation. At Iorveth’s gaze, he opened his eyes, fixing him with an expectant look.

“What?” Iorveth asked, childishly refusing to rise to the bait.

“Stop playing stupid. What happened last night?”

Iorveth schooled his face into what he hoped was a neutral look, giving Geralt the bare minimum, refusing to tell the whole story unprompted.

“Bandits. Caught me along the road after a few glasses of wine.”

“And what were you doing along these roads?”

“Riding,” Iorveth said, petulant. 

“Mirene aen te,” he added when Geralt said nothing, finding the words easier to say in his own language, the weight of them less of a burden and more of a simple truth.

Geralt’s eyes softened, looking at Iorveth with an openness that hurt, like looking in the face of a painfully earnest sun.

“I’m right here,” Geralt said, with a small smile. “What do you need?”

Iorveth let his head fall back against the wall, closing his eye and taking a breath. 

“Tell me,” he said, at last. “Tell me about the Wild Hunt, about Ciri, about you.”

Iorveth heard Geralt moving to settle back against the wall next to him, taking a moment to think, before he started talking. He talked for hours, his low voice telling the story like it happened, no embellishments, no understatements. He talked until Iorveth felt his consciousness slipping, until he felt Geralt’s arms circling him to bring him down to lie more comfortably on the bed, mindful of his injured shoulder.

He felt the bed dip as Geralt got up from the bed, and then he fell down into a peaceful sleep.

\--

Geralt went to ensure that everything was in order at the vineyard and informed BB that he wouldn’t be working for the next few days, but to come get him if anything happened. He commissioned more food from Marlene for later, and settled down next to Iorveth with a book. 

When Iorveth woke up a few hours later, he repeated the process of food and water, before Iorveth settled in with an expectant look in his direction, which Geralt took as a cue to continue the story, including the regicide, including the pain of having Yennefer torn from his soul like opening a half-healed wound, including the horror of holding Ciri’s limp body in his arms and finally, the joy of feeling her arms tightening around him.

He stopped some time before the final battle, feeling Iorveth head dropping closer to his shoulder with every minute, exhaustion visible on his features.

“Did the healer leave any of the herbal salve?” Iorveth asked, voice thick with sleep and pain. 

“I have some, hang on,” he replied, moving Iorveth into a lying position before fetching the salve from his saddlebags, still propped up next to the bed. 

Iorveth waved his good arm in an uncoordinated gesture, and Geralt removed the covers to reveal his body, still only clad in his breeches from the physician’s examination, hiked up around one thigh to accommodate for a bandage. 

The bruises were already fading, his elven blood accelerating the healing and mending the skin. 

Geralt took his time removing the smaller bandages to reapply the salve, rubbing it gently into the red lines left by swords and the yellow-purple skin where he’d been hit with blunt force. One bruise covered the left side of his ribs, darker than the others, but still lighter than the tattoo that trailed down in flowery tendrils towards his hip. 

Iorveth looked down at him, his eye low-lidded and his mouth slightly parted as he followed the movement of Geralt’s hands. Not quite sure what to do about the scrutiny, Geralt kept his attention on the task at hand, moving his hands steadily from one part of Iorveth’s body to the next. 

Once he was finished, he wrapped the worst of the remaining cuts in fresh bandages, leaving Iorveth’s shoulder untouched, not wanting to upset the bandages left by the physician.

By the time he pulled the covers back over Iorveth’s body, he was already sleeping.

Unsure of the situation, but sure of Iorveth’s wish to keep him near, he settled down next to him like the previous night, falling asleep to the sound of Iorveth’s even breathing.

The next day transpired much like the last, with Iorveth staying put in bed, and Geralt telling him the rest of the story, including how he came to be in possession of a vineyard in Toussaint. When he explained who Regis was, who he had been, his importance to Geralt unstated, but plainly visible in every word, Iorveth reached over to grab his hand, linking their fingers and squeezing. 

Geralt let his head fall forward slightly, allowing himself to feel the pain of memory, the pain of being left alone, anchored to Iorveth, who was not from his slowly regained past, who had never been lost to Geralt, and who seemed, for the time being, to be perfectly content by his side.

Nevermind that he was literally bed-ridden, Geralt could feel the underlying sense of calm, the unspooling of years of tension, visible in the way his eye lost its angry light, and the way he no longer twitched every time someone moved about the house.

On the third day, following a visit from the physician and a redressing of the shoulder bandages, Geralt helped Iorveth into a loose shirt and trousers, and let him lean heavily on his shoulder, Geralt’s hand wrapped around his waist, as they made their way outside into the sunlight.

They walked to the herb garden and found a bench, Iorveth grimacing as he lowered himself down. Geralt sat next to him, content to watch the shadows play over the various flowers and leaves through the canopy of roses as Iorveth took in the sight of the estate around them. 

“It’s beautiful,” he said, after a while. 

Geralt hummed thoughtfully. “Thank you. I mostly just throw money at my majordomo, and he spends a few days doing what I assume is dark and sinister magic, leaving the place more radiant than a fairytale.”

He heard Iorveth laugh next to him, a short, but genuine laugh, his lips still curved around it when Geralt turned to look at him. Iorveth’s head remained facing forward, but he no doubt felt Geralt’s gaze as he searched the more inscrutable side of Iorveth’s face, obscured by the eyepatch.

“Your turn,” he said.

“Hmm?” 

“Tell me your story.”

Despite the slight downturn of his lips that had Geralt’s stomach clenching, Iorveth did. He told Geralt of his friends and allies’ happiness, of the precarious, but holding peace, of holding a newborn near pure-blooded elven baby in his hands for the first time in his life. He spoke with a tenderness that was a clear payment for how forthcoming Geralt had been with his own story. He even told him about meeting Roche, with a little self-deprecating laugh at how pointless murder had felt in this new world, whose sudden change had happened without him noticing.

His voice, which had always seemed fuelled by anger, sharp around the edges and commanding, was soft and curled around Geralt along with the warm summer air, until Iorveth himself seemed weaved from sunlight, his dark hair golden in the light.

His hair was longer, Geralt noticed, than it had been, reaching down to his shoulders. Without the headscarf, it looked soft, even mussed from the days in bed.

Towards the end of the story, Iorveth trailed off, unable or unwilling to talk about how he’d ended up this far south. 

He ended his story with a wave of his arm, and a “well, I found you.” 

“My entrance ended up being rather more dramatic than planned, though it might’ve hurried my arrival along,” he continued, finally looking at Geralt with a quick smile that was gone before it had time to reach his eye.

“Whatever it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here.” 

Geralt aimed for reassurance, but it seemed to land short of its mark, as Iorveth moved to get up.

“I’m hungry,” he said, effectively shutting down the conversation. “And filthy.”

“Food should be waiting,” Geralt replied, allowing the defusion. “I’ll see about having a bath drawn in the guest room.”

When Iorveth came downstairs after cleaning up, dressed in a fresh set of clothes, he had left his eyepatch behind and given his hair twin braids, one on each side of his face, making it impossible to hide the scar behind his hair.

Like the way he had lifted his headscarf in Vergen, it seemed like a deliberate display of trust, to allow Geralt to see him in a way that he doubted many others aside from other scoia’tael ever had. 

He padded over to the chair next to Geralt’s on bare feet, gingerly lowering his body into it, before curling his legs up into the chair, and leaning his good shoulder and head on the curved side of the backrest. 

The movement mostly hid his scar from view, his eye peering at Geralt over the candle for a second, before he closed it and let his body relax into the chair.

“Let me know when there’s more food,” he mumbled, a few minutes passing before Geralt heard both his heart and breathing slow down in sleep.

\--

Moving into the guest room once he was able to walk on his own seemed the logical move, and while it finally left him room to _think_ about Geralt and what their conversations and comfortable silences meant to him, it also meant that he had to sleep alone, and as the past year had proved, he was unlikely to catch a full night’s sleep this way.

He was surprised at how calm his sleep had been the past few nights, but attributed it as much to the injury and his body’s instincts in healing as to Geralt’s presence. 

The first night alone turned out better than he’d hoped, and he only woke up once with a gasp, body tense and poised for attack, in the wee hours of the morning.

That day, Geralt showed him around the vineyard, telling him about the various parts of the estate, letting him lean on him as they made their way up to a viewpoint. 

Iorveth looked from the sprawling fields of the vineyard to Geralt’s face as he pointed out the various parts, and wondered what the hell he’d been doing keeping away this long.

Knowing that after all Geralt had done to help him, he hadn’t been there to aid him when he needed it. Knowing that it was _Roche_ who had stood with Geralt facing the Wild Hunt, despite Geralt’s choices in Flotsam. 

When Geralt turned to face him, eyes warm, face open and soft, Iorveth felt his stubborn heart give in, believing that Geralt didn’t blame him, didn’t expect anything from him but company, and Iorveth, gods damn him, wanted to give it.

Everything felt a lot less urgent now that he was finally here, now that he understood what he wanted, maybe even believed that Geralt would welcome it. 

He gave Geralt a small smile and grabbed his arm, steering them back towards the house.

“Let’s go back,” he said, ignoring Geralt’s slightly bewildered look.

He understood, that night, that Geralt was waiting for him, as they spent another night curled up in chairs, Geralt reading and Iorveth napping, his body seemingly unable to get enough sleep during the healing process.

Somehow, Geralt’s gentle fingers on the side of his face were expected, coaxing him awake, and then guiding him upstairs to his bed. His own fingers seeking Geralt’s hand and giving it a squeeze before he got up to leave was also expected, though he seemed unable to ask for more, and Geralt seemed content to wait.

What he didn’t expect, feeling warm and comfortable as he drifted off to sleep, was the violent nightmares.

Like last night, he jolted awake, but unlike last night, he wasn’t alone, and his body reached for the knife at his bedside table before he had the presence of mind to process who was there with him.

He had the other person flipped underneath him on the bed in a heartbeat, the knife pressed against their throat, before his injured shoulder twinged in pain and reality filtered in.

Geralt was lax beneath him, eyes calm, murmuring “I’m here, you’re okay, it’s me,” in a steady voice, breaking through the ringing in Iorveth’s ears, through the echo of his own scream.

Iorveth took a deep breath, tossing the knife aside, dropping his head down to lean his forehead on Geralt’s shoulder. Taking another shuddering breath, he felt Geralt’s arms coming up to circle him, one hand rubbing soothing circles against his back.

“Squaess’me,” he mumbled into the fabric of Geralt’s shirt, feeling boneless and exhausted, shoulder throbbing dully.

“Shhh, it’s okay. How’s your shoulder?”

He didn’t manage anything but a pained noise in reply. 

Geralt responded by sitting up, holding on to Iorveth’s waist to steady him, and then turning him over, strong hands setting him down gently against the bed, before lying down next to him and grabbing his good hand.

“This okay?” he asked, picking up on Iorveth’s needs before he’d even managed to articulate them to himself.

He nodded briefly, not trusting his voice, and let Geralt’s even breathing and warm presence steady his racing heart and lull him to sleep.

\--

Waking up, Geralt first felt comfortable, the early morning sun bathing the room in soft light, his arm around a warm body. Unconsciously, he tightened his arm around Iorveth’s waist, before it registered that he didn’t normally wake up in this bed, curled around this man, leaving him feeling slightly off-kilter, unsure of how to proceed.

The slight movement of his arm seemed to wake Iorveth, who turned on his side to face Geralt, blinking his eye a couple of times, shaking off the remnants of sleep.

He watched Geralt for one long moment, before taking a breath and closing his eye again.

“Please,” he whispered into the air between them, shifting his body wordlessly closer to Geralt’s.

Geralt let his hands frame Iorveth’s face, thumbs gently stroking his cheeks, one smooth, one scarred. Leaning forward, Geralt pressed a kiss to his brow, just above his ruined eye, and another one just beside his mouth, feeling his mouth open in a quiet gasp. 

Pulling back slightly, Geralt looked into Iorveth’s eye, making sure that this was okay, that he wasn’t overstepping. Iorveth looked back at him with an open vulnerability that Geralt felt like a punch to the gut, more so than any of his harsh words ever had.

He _trusted_ Geralt, enough to share his home, enough to let himself soften around the edges, to leave his back unprotected by armour and face uncovered.

Geralt leaned forward, closing his eyes and moving one hand back to trace his thumb along the curve of Iorveth’s ear, before finally letting his lips touch Iorveth’s.

He trembled when Geralt’s thumb reached the tip of his ear, mouth opening with a tiny sound that had Geralt pushing closer, letting his tongue push forward to meet Iorveth’s in a gentle caress. 

Iorveth opened up under his ministrations, allowing their tongues to tangle and sighing as Geralt slid a hand into his hair.

Pulling back, Geralt leaned his forehead against Iorveth’s, feeling Iorveth’s hand come up to tangle in his hair, his breath hot against Geralt’s mouth.

After a second, Iorveth’s hand tightened in Geralt’s hair and he leaned forward to press their lips together in a close-mouthed kiss, and another, before opening his mouth, tongue darting forward to lick at Geralt’s lips.

Geralt responded by parting his lips and deepening their kiss once again, tilting his head and feeling his tongue slide against Iorveth’s, swallowing the breathless sounds Iorveth was making.

He pushed Iorveth back against the bed, letting his own body cover the elf’s, hips snug between Iorveth’s open legs.

This close, he could feel Iorveth’s cock slowly harden against his, a gentle pressure through the thin fabric of their breeches.

Unhurried, still enjoying the wet slide of their lips, Geralt rocked his hips down, the friction not enough for any real gratification, but the intimacy of the action, of their bodies being pressed together, warm and safe, and Iorveth’s eye closed and his mouth open beneath him was enough to make him shudder, pleasure racing along his spine.

He let his thumb move along Iorveth’s ear again, feeling him shiver and push his hips up in an impatient gesture, hand tightening in Geralt’s hair.

Shifting his body to the side, Geralt reached down to rub a hand along the length of Iorveth’s cock through his breeches, feeling it fully harden against his hand, and watched the way Iorveth gasped, his head tilting back.

Geralt leaned forward to kiss his throat, licking along the path of his jaw before closing his lips and teeth gently around his earlobe. At that, Iorveth bucked his hips up against Geralt’s hand, muttering “bloede d’yaebl,” as Geralt smiled against his ear.

Taking the insult to heart, he pushed his hand inside Iorveth’s breeches to grab his cock, giving it a slow stroke as he licked a line along the shell of Iorveth’s ear, enjoying the way Iorveth kept cursing at him and the glare that was thrown in his direction when he pulled back to look at Iorveth’s face.

Iorveth’s fingers curled against the waistband of his breeches by his hip, giving them an impatient, but ineffective pull. Geralt leaned down to kiss the frown off his face, taking pity on him at last and pushing down both their breeches to grasp their cocks in one hand, giving them an experimental rub, startling a moan from himself and Iorveth both.

He rubbed them together in a haphazard rhythm, feeling Iorveth’s hand gripping his waist and their breaths mingling where their faces remained pressed together.

When Iorveth came, it was with a low moan and a slight tilt of his hips, pushing his head sharply against the bed to look into Geralt’s eyes. 

Geralt looked back, seeing the feeling from every comfortable moment of the last week, every caress, every brush of his hands against Iorveth’s mirrored back at him. 

As he released Iorveth’s sensitive cock to grasp his own more firmly, Iorveth pulled his hand up from underneath Geralt’s body to grasp at his head, and when he dragged a finger roughly along the inside of Geralt’s ear, Geralt moaned and captured his lips in another kiss as he came, adding to the mess on Iorveth’s stomach, still halfway covered with one of Geralt’s shirts.

Geralt collapsed next to him, rubbing his hand clean on the far side of Iorveth’s shirt, earning himself another sour look. 

They stayed like that for several long minutes, Iorveth watching the ceiling, Geralt watching Iorveth.

“Stay a while,” Geralt finally said, reaching out to trace a finger down the scarred line of Iorveth’s cheek. 

Iorveth swallowed, before turning his head towards Geralt. His eye seemed to be searching for something in Geralt’s eyes, reading the implication of his words. It was an offer, not for life, not for eternity, but for now.

“Okay,” he said, voice firm in the air between them, but his face soft.

“The famous Iorveth, tamed at last,” Geralt said with a laugh, giving Iorveth’s hair a slight tug.

Iorveth glowered at him, but didn’t dignify the jab with a response, instead reaching over to grab a handful of Geralt’s hair, using it to pull his face closer.

“A’baeth me, Gwynbleidd,” he said, voice a growl, but lips stretching into a smile as Geralt leaned closer to kiss him.

**Author's Note:**

> “Gwynbleidd, n’te… Esseath…” - “Geralt, don’t… You’re…” (ik ik it means White Wolf)  
> “Mirene aen te” - “Looking for you” (conjugation of the verb invented by yours truly)  
> “Squaess’me” - “Forgive me”  
> “bloede d’yaebl” - “fucking devil”  
> “A’baeth me, Gwynbleidd” - “Kiss me, Geralt” (just making the sentence structure up as i go along)


End file.
